


heart out

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Forced Marriage, Hopeful Ending, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7604425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Sansa marry in the godswood.</p><p>-</p><p>Jon, Sansa + 'Dany makes them marry' trope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart out

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked for: jonsa + where they're made to get married by dany once she's queen to secure the north and it's sorta awkward at first (especially when they have to consummate the wedding) but they learn to love each other.
> 
> -
> 
> This is awkward and angsty, and not so much learning to love one another in so much as they've loved each other the whole time... and some day it'll change into the real deal. #newnedcat2k16

Months ago, she’d told Lady Mormont she did what she had to survive. That was true. To stay afloat in the rapids of Westeros had been no simple task for the girl she’d once been. She’d almost drowned: in King’s Landing, at the Vale, with Littlefinger… Ramsey. She’d been a lone wolf in a pit of vipers. As soon as she’d escape one captor, the next hand -- some falsely benevolent, most cruel -- would sweep her once more into another trap. But she’d broken free, time and time again, thinking of little else but returning home to Winterfell. She’d endured; survived to become the victor.

Now, however, with the Others almost upon them and the foundation of the North and all its houses rattled by the coming Dragon Queen, she felt another cage looming. Another marriage that would be impressed upon her by royal decree. She saw it in Jon’s eyes, the way he looked sadly at her, as he turned eligible suitors away one by one. He couldn’t hold them off for much longer. The North remembered, and until Arya and Bran returned, she was the only trueborn Stark left. It was only a matter of time before he had to make a choice. She didn’t begrudge this fact -- it was her duty, after all -- but Jon Snow did.

“None of them deserve you,” he snapped, after the second round of presentations; lords of first sons, second sons, Northern men all vying for the Lady of Winterfell. He hadn’t made it a secret he’d found them all lacking, in some way or another. “Not one.”

There _was_ one, however, whom she would choose without a second thought. Their marriage would be the answer to everything, the simplest way to close the loop and tie the loose ends left frayed in the madness of war, current and forthcoming. And for all that she had learned, broaching the subject was no easy task.

Jon was a Targaryen by blood, the King in the North by respect. Still, the Stark name was what he needed to solidify the claim; and, despite the song and dance they all played for Sansa’s hand, giving it was her choice.

With Jon’s true parentage revealed, it would have been foolish to ignore the perfect marriage of convenience staring at them straight on. Two Northerners, keeping the North together, an alliance forged through dragon fire and long-lost blood: a marriage not even Daenerys Stormborn could refuse. And one, according to the raven’s message Sam held in his hands, she hadn’t.

 

-

 

“You went behind my back.”

Sansa kept her arms firmly at her side, her gaze steady and true. They hadn’t argued at dinner, but he’d kept a clenched, trembling hand on the table throughout-- pent up frustration that bubbled over when they’d retreated to the solar to discuss the Queen’s word. “You would’ve shot the raven down yourself, if I hadn’t.”

“We’re-- you’re my sister, Sansa. Maybe not in blood, but in every other way.” Jon swept his gaze over her. “I can’t dishonor you. That's what you're asking me to do.”

She had been married twice, now; her marriage to Tyrion annulled not long after Daenerys arrived on Westeros’ shores with her Ironborn fleet, Ramsey’s death making her a widower. The North understood, but the Southron courts-- she doubted they ever would. Jon was a prince. The King in the North. By all accounts, she should not be worthy of him, even if he he had spent most of his life known as a bastard son of a lord.

“If anything, I would dishonor you,” she admitted.

She’d wanted to sound matter of fact-- her words _were_ a matter of fact-- but Jon’s expression turned stormy and sad. “No. You wouldn’t. Not ever.”

Her stomach fluttered. “Then you accept.”

“Accept? I don’t have a choice, do I? I entertained your proposal because never in my wildest dreams did I think my aunt would-- she would give us her _blessing._ And I never thought you’d actually ask for it _,_ ” he said. He gave a mirthless huff. “Cousins. Perhaps dragon’s blood does flow through my veins.”

“And perhaps my time with the Lannisters affected me as well,” she snapped. “I never considered you my true brother, Jon. Certainly not before. And now… I would rather marry you then become another pawn in someone else’s game. I don’t want to leave Winterfell. I don’t want to leave _home_. If I’d known you were simply _entertaining_ me--”

“Enough!” He took a calming breath. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to talk. I need a moment to think. Alone.”

Sansa swallowed thickly, his dismissal stinging almost as much as his rejection. She knew she’d lost his favor by sending a message to the Queen without consulting him first-- but they _had_ talked about marriage, at length, with Davos and Brienne and Lady Mormont. Even Bran had been roped into the conversation. And their most trusted advisors had all agreed, after a bit of balking, that their union would be best. The raven, of course, had been a calculated risk. He’d forgive her for it eventually, she knew, but he might not ever forgive her for forcing his hand. It was a selfish move on her part, but she’d thought--

“Good night, Sansa,” Jon cut into her thoughts, his tone formal though not unkind.

“I hope your thoughts lead you to an agreeable solution,” she said, after a long moment. She wanted to fight. She wanted to talk. In fact, the last thing she wanted to do was walk out of the lord’s chamber, as he asked, but she did.

 

-

 

Though Sansa knew Jon had every right to ask the queen to rescind her blessing, he did not; or, if he had tried, no one bothered embarrassing her with his failed attempt.

She’d learned, over the years, to set aside pride and embody humility, but in this matter, she could not bring herself to ask. Sometimes, she thought, truth was best left to the gods. What was would be, and she she could live the rest of her days happy never knowing if Jon had found the prospect of marrying her repulsive enough to prostrate himself before his aunt to break their betrothal.

Instead, she focused on wedding preparations and avoided Jon as much as he avoided her. This, Winterfell noticed. They were called shy but some, romantic by others; the worst of the talk, Sansa was sure, would never make it to her ears.

 

-

 

She took his hand in the godswood two moon’s later, flakes of snow drifting down upon them like ash, and said her vows. Three times spoken, they were the first ones she’d ever truly meant.

The heart tree must have listened.

Jon kissed her gently that night, touched her like she was precious; made from steel, not ice. The touches built and built something inside of her, until she was breathing heavily under him; and when he took her, finally, it did not hurt, nor was she frightened. He’d promised to protect her, and he had, and he would continue to. Of that, she was sure.

He kissed her brow as he moved inside of her, and she drew her knees up around his hips, gasping when a wave of something unfamiliar flashed through her-- a warmth that almost, _almost_ could be called good. She shifted again, chasing the feeling; realizing, belatedly, that her hands were fisted in the sheets next to her head and she was rocking into Jon’s careful thrusts. It was so different, and so overwhelming, that she forced herself to stop, and had to give Jon a watery, encouraging smile for him to continue.

After he spilled inside of her, he rolled away, and she wavered between going to him for comfort and wanting to make the choice he wouldn’t detest. After several awkward minutes, time Sansa found herself withdrawing into her doubts and fears, Jon touched her wrist.

“Are you--” he licked his lips, “are you alright?”

She drew the coverlet up around her chest. There was a heat in her stomach that made her want to rub her thighs together, and she wasn’t sure what to ask-- or even if he was allowed to. But, she _was_ fine. More than. “Yes. It was perfect, thank you.”

He said nothing for a long moment, and she watched the fire-cast shadows dance along the ceiling. Then, “I shouldn’t’ve avoided you. Before.” He pressed up onto his elbow and fixed her an earnest, honorable look. “We all but agreed to marry, but--”

“You were scared.”

“Sansa--”

“Just-- let it be that,” she said, unable to hold his gaze. If his truth would hurt her, leave it to the gods, she thought. _Lie for me. Please._ “I know this isn’t what you wanted. That I am not _who_ you wanted to call wife. But I will make you happy.”

He laced his fingers with hers. “And I, you. I swear it.”

She squeezed his hand. _All is possible._ She was not fool enough to believe they were _in love_ , but they _did_ love one another. And she prayed that, one day, the pragmatism that had brought them together might thaw away into something real and true; like it had for her parents. They lived in an age of magic, after all, and the songs always said that love was the strongest kind.


End file.
